


leaf and river

by heartofstanding



Series: The House That Oropher Built [2]
Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Thranduil's mother leaves Middle-earth.





	leaf and river

Thranduil is with his orchids when his mother comes to see him. Her hair is in a bright tangle down her back and her gown is blue, belted with a sash of lighter blue. She lays a hand on the table, by the pruning shears, and he looks to her with a sense of dutiful surprise. For the past months, she has gone out into the woods for days at a time, returning late at night. He did the same, once, before the shadow of Barad-dûr spread across these lands and his father recalled him to his side. Before Thranduil had become king in turn.

He sets down the glass watering jug and steps out from around the table. 'Mother,' he says, quietly, 'What brings you here?'

Eníril smiles at him, but her hands fly to her belt and tighten it, in a rare display of nervous energy. 'Do I need an excuse to see you?'

He shakes his head and she folds him into an embrace, resting her head on his shoulders. This is not unusual. His mother has never been shy of such physical gestures, but this feels different. Eníril is trembling, a fine shiver running through her, and he pulls back, looks at her in concern.

'Mother? What is wrong?'

'Nothing,' she says, pressing a hand to his face, 'Nothing. I – I would like for you to come with me, into the woods, for a time. You used to love exploring these lands, being amongst the trees.'

When he was younger, he would roam far and wide beneath the canopy of trees, to be away from his father's quietly burning anger and the tower of stones he had built on Amon Lanc. To be alone and at peace with himself and the world. It was how he met Dolwen, how he came to love her. He has often thought of leaving the halls carved from a child's memory of Menegroth and wandering amongst the great trees again, but he has not. The longing for the free air and green world thrums through him all at once at his mother's words.

He dips his head in a nod, sees the smile spread across Eníril's face but how her trembling does not end.

+

They dress in hunting leathers, worn soft and colourless, and take little with them. Eníril straps a long white knife to her woven belt and he slings a bow across his back, a quiver at his waist. Dolwen, Legolas clinging to her skirts, will rule in his absence. There is not much to rule these days. Their people are at peace and happy, the land is strong, the harvest plentiful.

They eat wild apples and berries as they walk, pulling them from trees and letting the juice run down their chins, the seeds falling where they might grow. They follow the Forest River for a time, drinking its water in cupped hands, before they leave it. They find small streams and pools with no name to drink from and bathe in. Autumn has come. Red leaves litter their path, become their beds as the night fall. Eníril says little, picking out a path from a maze of trees. They are heading westwards, he notices, dipping south, towards the Anduin, and he wonders if she chooses this path by chance or by design.

In the twilight, they dig up roots to roast in their fire's embers and cut herbs to stew in boiling water, and they take their rest amongst the fallen leaves, the stars only distantly glimpsed. Soon, Thranduil knows, the trees will be stripped, their bare branches reaching up to a cloudless and cold night, and the stars will shine, winter-bright.

On the eighth day, they reach the borders of the forest by early afternoon. This is the place where the trees thin and fall away, the land giving way to long grass and rocky outcrops. Not far from here are the fields where Isildur fell, where the Gladden River meets the Anduin. The sun is bright and unrelenting, even beneath the canopies of leaves, and there is something cold and hard in the air, a promise of the winter to come.

Eníril decides they will go no further. She builds a fire and boils water for broth she forgets to make and paces by it, her hand at her mouth. Thranduil leans against the trunk of an old and thick tree, half-dead, and watches her. He has tried six times to speak with her, but she has waved him away each time with impatient hands.

She does not speak until the sun crosses the sky, dips down in the West, and the twilight hours come. She stands, stock-still, and gazes at the setting sun. Then, at last, she turns to him and speaks.

'I am leaving,' she says.

'What?' He leaps to his feet, his body lurching towards her, his feet stumbling after hours of stillness. 'What – where would you—? Why? I don't—'

She holds up a hand, then presses it against his face, where he shivers to feel it, cold against his skin. 'I will follow the Anduin, for a time, until I find safe crossing into Eriador. From there, I shall continue westwards, to Mithlond, where I intend to seek passage on one of Círdan's ships.'

She looks at him expectantly, and his mouth falls open obediently, but he has no words. A wind from the north blows through the trees, the sound of it like a strange and distant ovation. He shivers again.

'One of Círdan's ships?' He repeats the words with a dull sense of horror and understanding. 'You would take a boat into the West, to Valinor?'

She means to _leave_ , to cross the Sea and leave Arda behind, to take refuge in the lands his father rejected and scorned. She means to leave _him_.

'I would.'

'Why?'

'Because you are happy.' Eníril's hand falls from his face, but she lifts it and brushes back his hair, fine and the colour of gold merging with silver. 'Look at you, my wild thing. You are grown now, a king, a husband and a father, and you are _happy_.'

He frowns, turns away from her. He has never been easy, Oropher was always quick to point that out, and Eníril had always been content to let him be himself, to speak in anger and joy without censure. And he _is_ happy, the happiest he has been in a long time, but his mother is _leaving_.

'Thranduil.'

'I was happy an age ago and you stayed.'

Eníril presses her hand to his shoulder. 'You know why I stayed then. Oropher, he was— he meant no harm, but I would not leave you alone with him.'

'You loved him once, or else you would not have wed him.'

'Look at me.' Eníril says, her voice firm, and he does, turning swiftly on his feet. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears, her hand clenched into a fist. 'Aye, I did. I loved him more than I loved the sun or the moon or the stars. I thought I would endure even the full fight of Morgoth came to Doriath and broke it with Oropher at my side. But Doriath was broken and when it was over, we did not love each other anymore.' She shakes her head. 'You were very young then and you took a grievous hurt yourself. You would not understand.'

He nods stiffly. He does not understand. He does not understand how the world would be changed – broken – so much so that he would no longer love Dolwen, and stay only for the sake of their son.

'Thranduil.' She presses her hands to his face now, holds it between her palms. 'Come with me.'

He pulls back sharply, looks for an escape. There is nothing but trees and sun and long grasses, mountains in the far distance. The coldness of winter come too soon lies heavily in the air and he reminds himself that the months are still the autumn's.

'Why?'

'Because you will not be happy forever. Not here. These lands are delved with sorrow and grief.'

Thranduil shakes his head. 'I cannot. Dolwen would not, Legolas – ai, he is too young. And these lands, Mother, these lands... I am needed.'

'Dolwen can rule,' Eníril says, 'She is a fine queen, and beloved. Legolas will grow, and he and his mother may follow you. For most of your life, you have lived with the siren call of the Sea in your ears. One day, you must yield to it.'

Slowly, he nods. One day, perhaps, but not today, he cannot. He is still in love with these lands, and these eight days have reminded of his passion for them. One day, perhaps, he and Dolwen will take Legolas for long walks amongst these green branches, once the winter as passed, and they will give their love to the stars and the green world.

'But not today,' he says, softly.

Eníril nods like she has taken a blow, but she reaches out and takes his hands, squeezes them. 'Not today. I will look to your coming, then.' She smiles, leans up onto her toes to press a kiss to his brow, as she used to when he was small and still-growing. 'Farewell, then, my son. May your happiness last for many a year.'

+

Sorrow and weariness weigh heavy upon him when he returns to his home, the carved stone doors opening before him. He has walked through the night's hours to come home and the sun is rising in the East. For a moment, he watches it, the darkness departing, letting the bright hues of the dawn streak across the sky. He will not see Eníril, his mother, for many a long year, perhaps even an age, but he is home now. His return is heralded by called greetings and he smiles, acknowledging them quietly as he turns back to the doors. Inside, his son will be sleeping, his wife just stirring, and he will sink beside her and know that he is happy and that he is home.


End file.
